Conflagration
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: "That's all they were. A fiery, passionate mess, constantly burning through one moment to the next. It was all Buffy would allow Spike to have. All love's done for her so far is hurt. She doesn't have many years left. Less, even, than most." When Spike moves to Italy and starts a relationship with Buffy, he realises home is what he left behind. Spike/Angel.


Conflagration

"I'm off, Peaches," I say and I feel like a right idiot. I'm standing in the doorframe to his office; some hotel he used to shack up in.

He's standing in front of his desk so I can only see the back of him. "Okay." He sounds distracted; lifts up a paper and reads over it or at least pretends to read over it. He's picked up a few papers in the last minute; I doubt he's read them all.

I don't have a suitcase. I don't have anything in my hand. I don't need to pack anything. Hell, nothing is stopping me from leaving; nothing has stopped me since I got all corporeal again. Angel certainly hasn't. He didn't need my help; I chose to stay.

Just like I'm choosing to leave now.

Angel lifts up another paper.

"Well, don't be too heartbroken about it," I tell him sarcastically.

He looks over his shoulder; face like stone, of course. It's not like he cares or anything. Hell, I don't. I don't care at all. Yeah. "Tell Buffy hi for me," he orders, then turns so that he's leaning back against the edge of his desk; facing me with a causal lean; looking over one of his stupid papers with his ankles crossed and brow furrowed.

"What? That's it?" Not that I care. Angel's eyes tick from the paper to mine. He frowns. I put a hand to my chest mockingly. "Honestly, I'm hurt. It's like you don't even care about me."

He stands up fully. "Is there something you wanted? You can't have the Viper."

Ha, like his permission has ever counted. "Well, I'm trotting out of your life forever an' all you can say is tell Buffy hi? Bloody hell, it's not like I helped you, I dunno, kill a dragon and stop the world from ending or anything."

Okay, so maybe I care a little. We're the only ones out of his crew that made it; I'd like at least some appreciation. I didn't even have to stay and help him fix up this hotel again; help him deal with the aftermath, the hordes of people attacked looking for help the police couldn't give, and sod all else. I could've skipped off the moment the last demon fell, but I didn't. Stayed around didn't I? For over a month.

Angel puts the paper down on the desk and faces away from me. "If you think Italy is where you need to be, that you and Buffy can work . . ." He trails off.

"Fair lot better than it did with you," I scoff.

He turns back around and stares at me; big, brown eyes going all soft and brows narrowed in the middle, all disappointed-like. "What?"

"I've got a better chance with her than you do; don't act like you don't know it."

"Me and Buffy."

"Of course you and Buffy; what'd you think I meant?"

He looks at the floor. "No one." He meets my eyes again and they lock.

So he'd noticed it too.

I take a step forward. "Angel . . ."

"Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out," he interrupts; raises his eyebrows and folds his arms.

I snort and roll my eyes. "Right. Well sod off then."

I turn around and walk off; scowl at nobody 'cause Angel's behind me. The foyer is empty; hell, the hotel is empty. It has that looming sense of nothing in every nook and cranny. It's just been me and him for the past month, working through cases; helping people deal with seeing hordes of demons tear apart LA and then the rest of the world brush it off and blame it on some climate disturbance as if anyone believed that tosh. Just the two of us against the world, I suppose, as ridiculous as that sounded. A month of just us, talking and sharing glances and nothing. He doesn't even care but whatever, neither do I. He's just a ponce anyway. Glad to be rid of him.

"Spike," he says, right behind me. His hand's on my shoulder.

I turn around and he's kissing me; all right, I'll admit I saw it coming soon as he touched my shoulder. There's no tongue; just his mouth on mine and I push into it. He smells like aftershave and mousse and toothpaste; I close my eyes and tilt my head; squeeze his upper arm. He's solid; grounding, really, and if I don't hold onto him, feels like I might fall away.

It's different from the last time we kissed; then again, that was more than a century ago, wasn't it? Christ, I can't remember; back then it was tongue and teeth and blood and fire. Now it's just this-it might not be as exciting but it's better.

Even though it's soft and lingers, he pulls away just a few seconds later; pushes his forehead to mine briefly before he steps away; I open my eyes just as my hand drops from his arm. His head is lowered and he's staring at me; I've never kissed Angel before. Angelus, yeah. I've done things with him that would make most porn stars blush; but Angel?

It was our first kiss, and with that realisation, my stomach starts flapping with butterflies like I'm a sodding nit.

He nods. "Goodbye, Spike."

"You . . . Angel, you just-"

"Try not to make a thing of it," he mumbles and takes a larger step back.

All of that for nothing? What, it didn't mean a thing? Well I guess it wouldn't, what with him being a buggering shit and all that. Seeing as he doesn't give two shits about me, or anyone, just goes around kissing people for no sodding reason, as if I'd wanted his stupid, slobbering mouth on mine-fine, let's see how much I don't care. I don't care, 'cause I don't even like him.

"How's this for not making a thing of it then?" I punch him.

I'm out the door before he can retaliate.

* * *

Buffy is young.

It's hard to remember that sometimes yeah. I've got years under my belt. Loads of experiences she can't even touch, and it's easy to forget it-what with all the world ending she's stopped, all the trauma she's gone through, all the death. Even her own. Compared to other girls her age, she's old; a woman. But to me? She's still a girl. One hell of a woman, but still a girl, and it guts me every time I catch myself thinking that.

Guess it was inevitable that I'd ship my ass off to Italy; meet back up with Buffy. After fighting a dragon and snapping more necks than I can count to demons I'd never even seen before, showing up on her doorstep and letting her know I was alive didn't really seem as nerve-wrecking as it had before. I hadn't expected her to smack me, but maybe I should've said somethin' more eloquent than; "Right so I'm not dead then."

So now I've got her crying into my shoulder and clutching at my duster; she doesn't know how new it is. Doesn't know that the duster she thinks she's sobbing into was destroyed in this sodding city 'cause of me and Angel searching all over the damn place for her with some berk's head. And Dawn's crashing into us, crying, and The Immortal isn't anywhere I can see thank God otherwise I'd have to beat the living hell out of him. Not too sure why I care though, he's Angel's rival not mine.

Despite the fact I'm in Italy, with Buffy, and she's crying on me and I assume happy to see me, I can't wrap my head around the fact she slapped me. Seems so immature. Then I have to remind myself she's only twenty-three, mate. I can't expect much out of that. She's just a wee slip of a girl, isn't she? And now that there's loads of slayers running about it's not like she's got the burden anymore; not on her own. She's part of something larger; she's used to being alone, and now she's the furthest from it. She's just a normal girl.

She's still young.

* * *

"Things can't just take off where we left them, Spike," she says. Her hair's pulled up in a messy bun; make up is light but noticeable, and she's eating something Dawn cooked. I'm not hungry but then again, even if I were I'm on a different diet than they are. I guess I could pick at the food, but they didn't make me a plate. I don't see the point in asking for one, either.

"Course not."

She twists her fork around the pasta; doesn't eat it. Stares up at me through lowered lashes as she continues to twirl her fork around it.

I honestly have no idea where we left off anyway.

* * *

Her kisses are like fire; I remember that and it hasn't lost the heat. I can taste the pasta she barely ate and her lip gloss; it's not flavoured, not like it used to be. But fashions change, don't they? Guess I never really kept up with 'em too much; been wearing the same style for two decades now. Maybe I should switch it up.

She changes styles a lot; I remember back when it was all light-coloured gloss and smoky brown eye shadow. Boots and skirts. Then she went through her Mum Phase where she looked more like someone in her thirties than a girl in her early twenties. Harmony used to natter on about it; so much changes so quickly, always gotta be on the up and up. Don't want to go to the store in last season's shirt and hell, I don't even know what a sodding season is. Gotta have three different purses 'cause she's got twenty pairs of shoes or some-all. Harmony was such a damn annoyance, though. Buffy isn't Harmony, but for some reason she still cares about it like Harmony did (although not as annoyingly). Back when we were shagging all the time, Buffy's gloss tasted like peaches or vanilla; now it's just sticky.

I pull away when her hand snakes up my shirt. "Wait, where's The Immortal?"

"He doesn't think that being tied down is-"

"Yeah okay," I mumble and kiss her; don't need to hear his poncey diatribe that makes him sound a lot more intellectual than he is; honestly, he just wants to stick it to as many people as he wants and he thinks the spiel makes him look mysterious.

She kisses like fire; always on the go, always moving her head from one twist to another. Her hands are like fire too; I guess it's 'cause she's living. Her lithe body moves like the flame; flickering, always moving even if it's just a little. Consuming me. Burning me.

I'm on the bed a moment later; my shirt's across the room and she's straddling me; I'm lifting off a shirt that I wouldn't have liked if it hadn't been on her. Her breasts bounce slightly; she wasn't wearing a bra. Is braless the thing now?

I can smell her arousal pulsing through the air; feel her wetness through the pants under her skirt; it's looser and only down to her knees; she grinds down on my hard-on and I grab at her waist; guide her so that she hits the right spot. She rolls her hips, lets out a tiny moan when I buck up.

This is familiar; I know this. We've done this so many times I could predict each move before she makes it. I know where she likes me to touch her; I know how she tastes. I've missed this; I've missed her. She's so alive and just being with her, in her, it makes me feel alive too; can feel her heat beating around me and coursing through my body like it was my own.

I lick her nipples; bring them into my mouth and suck. She keeps grinding down against me, and I slip my fingers up her skirt; push aside the fabric of her underwear and rub her. I slide one finger in before rubbing at her already swollen nub. I pull away from her nipple to kiss her; she attacks my mouth and rubs herself on my fingers; forces me to rub faster until she's moaning my name into my lips like she means it; like she's been holding back and finally she can say whatever she wants.

I flip her so she's on the mattress and her eyes are half-lidded and her half-smile is wet with kisses. The last time we kissed we'd known one of us would die in the morning; to be honest, I'd expected it to be me. I was right.

She's writhing while I push my fingers in her. I watch her arch her back and open her mouth to let out a tiny moan; she bites down on her lip and tilts her head to the side, baring her neck. I see fresh bite marks there. They aren't mine.

I look at her breasts; how they bounce when she meets my fingers with a thrust. Her skirt fans over her lower abdomen and I pull my fingers free. She doesn't hesitate to start rubbing herself and I finally figure out what the hell she's doing; she's faking.

Each move is too perfect and hot to be right. Nobody looks delectable and sexy when in pleasure; hell, looking at people's face mid-coitus is one way to get a good laugh.

She wants me to think she's hot; she's worried about looking funny. She's performing.

I wonder if this is the effect of her dating The Immortal. Or maybe this is just what happens when she actually cares what I feel; what I think. Not like she gave two shits back when we were goin' at it all the time.

Each roll of her hips upward, each gasp and moan and eye roll is perfect.

I bend down and push my lips to hers; push her hands aside and pin the above her head. She smiles at me and bats her eyes; licks her bottom lip.

"Stop it."

"What?"

"You know what."

She blinks a few times, then looks away from me; purses her lips and I see moisture in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers, and I hear the wobble in her voice.

I let go of her wrists and sit back on my heels; my hard-on against my zipper's sodding uncomfortable. She sucks in a shaky breath and sits up, pulling a corner of the blanket with her and covering her chest. "Buffy-"

"I don't know where we are anymore."

I swallow the lump in my throat; I wish I knew what to say. I don't, though. Instead I just put my hand on her shoulder. "Yeah. Me either."

She smiles, but she looks younger than she is when she does. I kiss her temple before sliding out of the bed. We can pick up later. Or not pick up at all.

Either way I'm gonna need a wank before my dick chafes against my jeans. It's not Buffy I think of when I get around to it.

* * *

The Immortal's gone. Either he knew she was with me and had no problems with being in an open relationship long as he was the one playing around but not her, or he grew tired of her conveniently when I showed up. Either way, she's curling up against my shoulder and crying about how she felt used; she'd been in threesomes for him apparently. Let him do things to her in the name of fun and sticking it to The Man that she shouldn't have; even though she knew he didn't believe in tying oneself down to one person, she'd somehow thought it was different with her 'cause he never talked about anyone else. Because she didn't take advantage of the openness she'd thought he wasn't. Or something.

To be honest, I sort of buzzed out a minute or so into it.

You know, she goes on about Parker, about defining herself by the men she's with-it's really not all that interesting and a part of me wants to tell her that she walked right into it. She can't be mad at The Immortal for telling her that she wasn't the only person, then finding out she really isn't the only person. She can be mad at him 'cause he's a git, but it's not like he didn't warn her.

It's not until she mentions us; what we did all those years ago. She goes on about how she hasn't let a man use her so much since me. That she was nothing more than an object to him; and she, what? Compares that to me? Yeah I admit that what we did wasn't the right way to do things; hell, nothing about what we did then was right. I used her but she used me, and right, so I don't have room to complain; I really had run her through hell, dragged her along the muck and made her do things that she hadn't ever thought herself capable of-but she's not entirely innocent here, either. She used me too. And that was years ago, why bring it up now? Crying into my shoulder and all.

Then I remember.

I tried to rape her.

It hits me like a brick to the face. I had shoved my way atop her, and tried to-

The thing is, you never really forget something like that. It's always under the surface, but it's not something I'm constantly thinking of and to be honest, there's no way it could be. There were girls, hundreds, that I had ruined for the hell of it; relished the pain as Dru watched, cheering me on and that's just a fraction of all I've done.

I can't understand why she would put her head on my shoulder; cry into my collarbone and open up to me, trust me, after that. How can anyone touch me without retching? Her, of all people? After what I put her through, how I hurt her-

She falls asleep pressed against my arm and I stare at her sleeping face. She's pressed into the arm of a rapist; a killer. She knows it, too, and she just . . . What, doesn't care?

She's naïve.

And I'm not worth it.

* * *

"She loves you."

I twist open the peanut butter and glance up at Dawn; she's grown since I last saw her. Well, it's been a bit more than a year, hasn't it? When they're that age, they grow fast, don't they? I remember sneaking out with her to rob the Magic Box; finding out that the tiny slip beside me wasn't even human. And now she's taller than me. Might be the shoes; might not be.

I don't really feel much of anything. It's like I already knew it, but I honestly didn't. It's news to me. I'm not sure I even believe it. What can she possibly know of love anyway? She's young as hell.

Did I really just think that?

It's not until I'm spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread that I figure out she's waiting for me to respond. "Yeah?"

"She cried a lot." She comes up beside me, leans on the counter. Pinches up her mouth and furrows her brows in thought, like she doesn't understand. Maybe she doesn't. I don't. "Xander cried a lot, too."

"Over little ol' me? I feel all special-like."

"Anya. She died too."

I can't really describe what it's like, knowing she's dead. We might not have ever been much, but I really liked her. Fred, Illyria, Wes, Charlie . . . They were all dead. There wasn't much else to it than that; one minute they're there, the next they're just shells. Sometimes you can't do anything; no matter how hard you try, it happens.

I knew Anya. Hell, I'd slept with her. Got along with her. And Dawn tells me she's dead and she says it like one would comment on the weather; hell, I react like it's no-never mind news to me. Who cares? Just another day. It's not like I didn't like her, even. I did, and I keep spreading peanut butter on my sandwich.

Dawn and I sit there in silence.

Two nights ago, Buffy had sobbed her eyes out over The Immortal leaving her. And now here Dawn and I were, not reacting to the death of someone we knew. She'd had a year to deal with it.

I'd had a few seconds.

"Huh."

"Do you love her?"

"Who, Anya?"

She stops leaning against the counter and stares at me. "Buffy, duh."

"Well yeah," I answer.

"Good. 'Cause she really does love you, y'know."

"She loves Angel too, ducks."

"You too."

The butter knife clatters to the counter and if my heart could beat, it would've missed one. "Wh-what?"

"She loves you too, Spike. Love isn't so easy. I used to think so, but yeah. You can love more than one person; you really shouldn't hang that over her head." She shrugs and then grabs the butter knife; wipes peanut butter off it between her thumb and forefinger, then giggles before she sucks it off her finger with all the innocence of a child who doesn't know what sucking on fingers looks like yet although I know she does. "I mean, you love Drusilla still, right?" she manages around her fingers and peanut butter; there's a fleck of it on her nose somehow.

I nod, then wipe the peanut butter off the tip of her nose. "Yeah."

She grins at me like she made some sort of point, then leaves the kitchen.

It occurs to me that she doesn't understand how complicated things are; guess this is where some poor, naive sod would say that I'm making things more difficult than they are and there's wisdom in naiveté. Well, let's just see how his opinion changes after the girl he tried to rape's sister accuses him of loving Buffy's ex.

Wait. No. That's not what she said, was it?

Actually, what the hell had she been nattering on about anyway?

I don't bother adding jam to my sandwich.

* * *

Sex with Buffy is just how I remember it. She's stopped performing too, so it's not awkward like it was my first night back. She tells me that she's not going to force us back to where we were before I died, but the thing is, I don't even know what that means and hell, if she's shagging me again then what did she mean in the first place?

When I ask her what she means, she just sighs, rubs her temple, and changes the subject.

She does patrol, but not as much as she used to. Most nights she stays in before falling asleep hours before I do. I go out, kill some demons, and wonder why she doesn't bother anymore; I get it, I guess. What, with hundreds of girls all being slayers, she finally gets to relax. I get it, but I don't understand it. Bleeding bothers me is all. We go out to clubs together; she dances against me, always moving her hips or her hands, staring at me with fire in her eyes; we go back home and she does things to me that I've forgotten felt good.

It's always go go go with her. Not that I mind, I hate sittin' still meself, but she's always two steps ahead of me. I love it; I love how she's always lighting up every place she goes. When she walks in a room, people stare; she's got the confidence, the fire, the energy. It's her show, whoever she goes, and she knows it and so does everyone else. Always on the move, and I love it; she's always touching me, always has something to say.

It's been three months since I've moved in with them and we're still not at the routine yet. Dawn's just as much on the go as Buffy is, always studying or meeting up with friends. Balancing social life and education. Makes me miss learning, really. Always had a book in my hand when I was human, whether I was writing in it or reading. Dawn doesn't ask for help, but I wish she would; she's just started the semester and honestly, never mind I couldn't care less if I tried.

They don't schedule anything, which is bloody fantastic 'cause I'm not much of a planner myself. But from the moment they wake up 'til they sleep, they're doing something. Buffy finds time to cuddle of course, but I'm just as confused as ever; she says she doesn't want to take anything seriously yet she's not doing anything to convince me that we aren't.

She's hot, sliding down me; sinking down, forcing me deeper. Like molten fire, burning every inch of me; fill me up with heat and she lifts up before sliding down again; warm palms sliding across my chest as she moans. She doesn't care for being quiet, not when Dawn's out-which she is. Some sort of study group she wants to head off to with Andrew. Something to do with the council. Don't care, long as Buffy and I get time alone.

She's wet, warm, living. Can feel her heat beat around my cock; reverberates through me and I can pretend maybe it's my heart thumping. She squeezes her legs tighter around my waist and gasps and cries louder, thrusting downward and impaling herself repeatedly.

Feels like I might burn up; she scratches down my chest and I hiss before I flip our positions. I pound into her and she cries out; barks orders, clutches at my shoulder blade, pushes her hips upward to force me deeper; harder.

She comes before I do; she always does. Not that I mind obviously. Feels great, her tightening around me. She keeps moving; keeps grinding upward against me until she comes again; until I come not long after.

She lies beside me, gasping, giggling, and I roll over; drape my arm around her. She hisses and I pull away. "What?"

"You're freezing," she mutters, turning away from me and snuggling into her pillow.

The curtains are pulled closed but I can still see headlights move past; filter through the curtains and dance like smoke on her skin. I reach forward to touch the patterns the filtered headlights and moon make on her back, but I hesitate in mid-air. I'm cold; of course I am.

"Every night should end like this," she hums, pulling the blankets over her shoulder more.

I stare at the ceiling instead of the alarm. I won't sleep for hours.

* * *

I'm not really one for dates, not so much; Dru was usually the one to keep track of that, but I do know them. I just never cared for them as much as she did.

That's the only reason I know it's our six-month anniversary, I guess, if you count when I first popped round. Which I do, since she threw herself on me not a few hours after I showed up. She has no idea that a few hours before that, someone else's mouth had been on mine; nothing serious, of course.

Angel calls. Buffy goes into the other room but I hear her side of the conversation anyway. Dawn is unnaturally quiet and hangs around the bedroom door. We're both listening in, but neither of us say anything. Dawn can't hear anything, but I've got vampire hearing.

She talks about herself. She talks about Dawn. From the sounds of it, Angel must've had a run in with a strange demon 'cause I hear her murmuring "uh-huh" and "how many horns?"

I wait.

After fifteen minutes of what sounds like shop talk, finally I get; "Hmm? Oh, Spike's fine. Did you want to-okay. I'll have Dawnie look it up then. Bye."

I'm out the door with a cigarette in my mouth before she leaves her bedroom; sucking in lungfuls of nicotine as I hear her start nattering to Dawn about the demon. My chest hurts, my eyes burn, and my mouth tingles. Can't stand the bastard anyway, hope he gets his bits torn off; why the hell even bother asking how I'm doing if he doesn't want to talk?

Not that I want to talk. 'Cause I don't even like him.

* * *

Xander doesn't say anything when he sees me; he stares quite a lot, though. Maybe he thinks it's rude to ask what I'm doing here. I don't care. They all stand close together; I'm the odd one out. Doesn't bother me, though. They've got years of friendship that can't be broken, and I appreciate that.

"Rona didn't make it," he tells them, nodding solemnly.

Buffy puts her hand on his shoulder. Dawn gasps and covers her mouth, but her eyes barely shimmer with tears. There isn't any sobbing.

We're all so used to death.

"I'll call Vi," Dawn tells him, voice hardly wobbling.

Buffy grabs her jacket and a stake. It's funny; I haven't seen her this determined to go on patrol since I've been here. Then again, probably feels like offing some demons will somehow right a slayer's death. I remember her too, from when we were training them; back when they were wee potentials.

Xander gets me a beer; sits by me on the couch as if we've always gotten along. "Tough luck, mate," I tell him, flipping to the next channel on the telly.

"It's always tough," he sighs.

It doesn't occur to me until he finishes his beer before I've even gotten halfway.

They're always on the go because they've got less time to fill. They're human, each of them. They'll all probably die before their thirties, what with all the demon hunting. They can't afford to take it slow.

Xander fidgets throughout the whole movie; he doesn't hesitate when I offer to go patrolling with him.

* * *

"You talk to Red anymore?" I ask, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. Blood trickles along my skin; I lick the red streaks and Xander doesn't seem to care.

Xander shrugs. "When we can." He touches his swollen lip.

"Is it really worth it Harris? What you're doing?"

He narrows his eye at me; he's hardened since I last saw him, but it makes sense I guess. "What do you mean?"

"Well she's your best mate, yeah? And what, you only talk when you can? What is that?" I hold my shoulder and pop it; it cracks my back along with it.

"I guess it all depends on how I look at things."

I wipe my nose again; there's more blood, so I lick it off. "Yeah? And how's that?"

"With one eye, basically."

It's lame but it's an attempt at least, which is more than what he's done all night. I snort back a chuckle and clap him on the back; he manages a smile at me. "Go see her, mate. She's not gonna turn you away."

He chuckles. "I know. But what about you?"

"What about me? She's not my best friend."

"You and Angel."

I stare at him, then wipe more blood on the back of my hand. I wonder if he can just tell, looking at me. If he's somehow gotten more perceptive what with leading armies and what-all. Is it in the way I move? Did I say something? Then I remember that's there's nothing whatsoever goin' on and so there's nothing for him to get perceptive about in the first place; I've always been upfront about my feelings for the pouf. Not that there are any feelings.

"What about me an' Angel?"

"Do you two talk?"

I sift through my pockets for my pack of smokes; look anywhere but at him. "Of course not. He's a wanker. Why would I even-" I scoff instead of finishing the sentence; pull out my pack of smokes and flip open the lid. It's empty, so I scoff and toss it to the ground. Xander is staring at me. "What? Look, so I worked for him a bit. Still can't stand the bastard."

"I was just down there. Some demon got a bit frisky." I knew all about the demon; that was what had killed Rona, after all. Didn't hear too much about it, just that it had horns. Guess I shoulda pieced together it was the same one Angel called about last week.

I wait for him to finish telling me the story; Harris used to be such a talker. "Well?" I urge on when I realise he wasn't gonna talk any time soon.

"He wouldn't shut up about you," he reveals with a sly grin.

I can't help but smile; I hate that a small, but tangible, thrill goes through my chest; to my gut. I knew it couldn't have just been me, thinking of him as much as I am. He's the one who kissed me, after all. It couldn't have been just me; of course not, not after we got into that wrestling match over the bloody remote; I swear he was just as hard as I was. Of course he took off a moment later, but what about the time he bumped into me in the hall wearin' nothing but a towel? All right, so that was on my end, I'm sure he didn't have much time to notice as he bolted into the nearest room. And I did let him read my poems, since he wouldn't shut up about them. He wouldn't have wanted to read them if it was nothing, right?

Hell, not even Buffy had read them.

He always smells good, too, like a bloke should. You get these vampires, so soddin' lazy, they don't even take care of themselves. What, like they think being dead means they don't need to spruce up a bit. He knows I like red, too, and he was wearing that maroon shirt I like a bit more often than usual; leaning over my shoulder to look over what I was scribbling in my notebook . . . Laughing when I tuck it away and chasing me through the foyer to get a hold of it . . .

"Really?"

"You are so pathetic Spike. You couldn't hide it if you tried," Xander chuckles, smiling at me. "So . . . I mean, since you go that way, when we lived together, did you ever-"

"No," I interrupt hastily.

He nods. "Just making sure, you big queen."

I can't remember the last time I laughed; feels nice to do it again.

* * *

I hate making international calls. Always forget the bloody extensions. And I'm sure it costs but it's not like Buffy doesn't make 'em regularly anyhow. What with her mates skipping 'round the world all the sodding time.

I hold the phone to one ear and rub my face with my other hand. It rings and I pinch the bridge of my nose. What the hell am I doing?

"Angel Investigations, we help the helpless," Angel answers in that dull monotone of his; clearly bored out of his skull. Probably begging for a demon at this point. I wonder if he's hired on anyone or if he's still all alone in that massive hotel. God, what a boring life he leads.

"Uh yeah." You know, I'm starting to think greetings aren't my thing.

"Spike?"

"Yeah." I clear my throat and look around to make sure no one's listening; I've been alone for the last fifteen minutes, of course no one is.

"Is everything all right?" he asks after an awkward pause.

"Yeah."

I don't say anything and neither does he; it's probably a good thing neither of us have to breathe 'cause otherwise I'd be listening to that right now. Actually scratch that, just 'cause we don't have to breathe doesn't mean we don't. So yeah. Breathing. Listening to it. God, what the hell am I doing?

"Is there a reason you called?"

"Oh right." I look around again; wish I'd had my own mobile phone so I didn't have to use the damn hotel one. Who the hell uses landlines anymore? Can't properly pace with them, can you? "Just, y'know. Buffy and all. She wanted to say hi." I scoff and roll my eyes, like it's some great injustice and he can see me.

"You called to tell me Buffy says hi?"

"Well yeah. You know. She's . . . you know how girls are an' all." I chuckle nervously and rub the back of my neck; look around to make sure no one's listening again. "'Tell so-and-so I love him' and whatnot."

"Buffy told you to tell me she loves me?" He sounds even more incredulous than before. God, who do I think I'm kidding? It's not like-I mean, it's true, I'm sure. Of course she does. So I'm not lying, right? I don't even know what I'm doing.

". . . yes," I mutter, then push my palm to my forehead.

I listen to him breathe for a few seconds. He's not an idiot-much as I'd like him to be-so I know he gets it. What sort of nit would call his girlfriend's ex to say that? I don't even know why I bothered, really. Why the hell did I call him in the first place? Shoulda just kept my mouth shut; Harris got me all bloody excited for no reason, there isn't a reason, we're nothing, Angel and I are just . . .

I scoff. "You know what, I've gotta go anyhow, so-"

"Wait, wait," he rushes and I hate the fact I stop moving; hold my breath, not that it really means anything that I do since I don't need it, but I do just as he says. "She loves you too, Spike."

My throat constricts. "She does?"

"I think so."

"Wait, you think?"

"W-well, it . . . it depends on-Spike, did Buffy really tell you to say that?"

Shit.

I open my mouth to say that she did, or say that she didn't, I don't know. What the hell should I say to that?

I hang up on him.

Yeah that took care of it.

* * *

So Buffy's birthdays are pretty much cursed. I don't really blame her for not celebrating her twenty-second, what with the First mucking about. That being said, I probably would've stopped celebrating it altogether sometime after the first bloke I slept with turning into a soulless psychopath and trying to kill me, but yeah, well. Being a vampire, I stopped celebrating my birthday years ago anyway.

I always get nervous giving gifts. You give a girl a demon hell bent on destroying humanity by burning the goodness out of them even though you happen to like humanity, and some bint comes 'round with a rocket launcher to break it apart. Really difficult consoling your girlfriend about the world still being intact when you're secretly glad, let me tell you. Then you've got Miss Edith goin' off, snooping into business that isn't hers, and telling her you're glad the bugger died which really only gets her in a snit about acid rain and Venus Fly Traps.

Thing is, despite all we've been through, I really can't piece together what it is Buffy likes. I just got her a tasteful top in one of those really expensive stores she natters on about. Dawn made her a CD and I wish I'd have thought of that. At least with Angel I knew what he liked; grab the ponciest CD or book at your fingertips and there you have it. Basically stuff I wouldn't admit to liking with a stake pressed to my chest. And things I most definitely don't have hidden at the house in London I've kept since I was sired.

Not that I'm thinking of Angel or anything like that.

How am I supposed to talk to him or go back or any of that when he knows what I've been doing with Buffy since I came here? How am I supposed to just leave Buffy and skip on over to, what? Go back to a bloke I can hardly stand and doesn't even like me anyway and probably has Dog Girl shacked up with him, living in blissful almost-happiness and fighting demons nightly and I just left that to come here, and after all the sodding effort I went through to get Buffy not to hate me, and to just up and leave and throw all that work away?

Not that I was thinking of leaving, of course not. I love Buffy.

"I'm surprised you remembered," Buffy gushes when she pulls out the shirt I bought her, grinning at me with teeth shining and eyes sparkling, looking gorgeous as ever.

"Well yeah, it was Dru's birthday too." I shrug.

I can tell that's the wrong thing to say immediately; her and Dawn share a look and the genuineness in her smile disappears; doesn't reach her eyes. She half-purses her lips in an agitated smile and folds the shirt as she looks away from me. "I was talking about the brand of shirt, Spike." Right, and her tone's slightly snippy now too.

"Oh. Well it's not like I remember my birthday, so I thought you were-"

"You don't remember your birthday?" Dawn sounds like she's about to cry.

I shrug it off. "I'm old," I offer as an explanation.

She only has twenty-four candles on her cake.

I realise I've been dead a century longer than she's been living.

The candles relight again-Dawn giggles like someone half her age-and Buffy joins her. She blows out the fire again and smoke curls lazily for a few seconds before catching fire a third time.

I'm pretty sure I was born in the summer.

* * *

I wake up screaming.

Yeah, I scream. It's embarrassing.

Buffy jolts awake beside me; her body is like fire compared to mine, and all I see when I look at her is the tortured, fearful expression that twisted her face when I tried to rape her; light reflecting in her eyes that always disappears after I tear into someone's throat.

"What?! Is everything okay?" she demands, blinking sleep out of her eyes although she is sitting straight up, staring down at me; hair falling like curtains in her face.

Racking up a centuries' worth of killing, maiming, raping, torturing doesn't do well for your dreams, as it is. I get nightmares, but it's much worse than that. It's a terrifying crossbreed of nightmares and reality and memories; the eyes of a girl I spent hours torturing, with her spouting off verse much better than anything I could write when awake; grown men screaming like children as I force them to watch, and when I look back to the child I'm tearing into, it's Dawn.

Blood tastes like car oil in my mouth but I greedily gulp it down; I have no guilt as I pillage and kill these memories, twisted into something close enough to reality to haunt me, but different enough so it's not a memory.

She doesn't know what it's like to see the great-grandchildren of someone you killed decades ago; doesn't know what it's like to be surrounded by reminders of all you would've done to these people just a few short years ago. To have the impulse to tear into someone's throat just because it's something you've done for centuries and habits are hard to break; thoughts and urges don't disappear with the soul.

I swallow the lump in my throat and the dream is still lingering in my mind enough that my spit tastes like blood.

"Bad dream," I tell her 'cause she won't understand anything else. And I'm glad she never will, honestly.

She nods, then gets out of bed; she has a hard time falling back to sleep once she wakes up. She goes over to the curtains to open them but hesitates; acts like she was getting ready to stretch instead. It's dark out now, but she knows I'll be going back to sleep and she doesn't want to chance me sleeping through the sunrise.

I don't go back to sleep. I lie there as she leaves the room; listen to her make breakfast and watch telly as the sun rises, light filtering through the curtains. Normally I sleep through the morning but I've got images of bloody, torn apart people dancing in my mind and I don't feature havin' another nightmare like that.

Her mobile rings and she answers. A friend, but it's not one of the Scoobs. I don't recognise the name. She makes friends as quickly as she loses them it seems. Last friend she had that I didn't know lasted a few months before she stopped talking about her; that's her daytime life. I'm not a part of it. I can't be.

A few years ago, that girl on the phone? She would've had her throat ripped out as a message to the slayer.

She talks about how crazy it is someone I assume they both know is getting a divorce; they've been together for ten years.

I snort then turn onto my side, pulling the blanket over my shoulder. Ten years? That's nothing. Hardly even counts as a relationship. Hell, Angelus and I have had fights that lasted that long, then went back to shagging like nothing happened.

But when you've only got fifty years left, subtracting ten from that seems a bit worse, doesn't it?

* * *

If I were living, this cigarette would be slowly killing me. Hell, if I were living I probably would've died sometime in the roaring twenties. But that's not the point, is it? If I were living, this would be slowly killing me but I guess it wouldn't matter, 'cause everything else would be slowly killing me too. Hell, I'd be slowly dying. Eighty years went by in a flash for me; can't imagine how it would've been if that was all I had.

She's passionate; fiery. I know that; hell, when we're together that's all we are, isn't it? A fiery, passionate mess, constantly burning through one moment to the next. It's fire, it's passion, but it's all we have. It's all she'll allow me to have; she doesn't want to pick up where we left off and where we left off? She said she loved me. All love's done for her so far is hurt. She doesn't have many years left. Less, even, than most.

She doesn't want to settle down, she said. She's not ready yet. It's her time to have fun. She's spent her whole life going from one committed relationship to the next. And to be honest? I completely understand. Beyond that, after what I did to her, how could she ever trust me for something more? Besides, even if we did settle down, how long could we last? Ten years? That's a sodding blip to me.

If I weren't a vampire, the smoke and nicotine I fill my lungs with, feel it pressing against my sternum as I suck it in deep, would be a death sentence. But I'm not human. It's not killing me anymore than cholesterol is, or not eating for days, or time.

She flits back and forth in the crowd like a flame on a candle; but eventually that candle will burn out. Will drip useless wax all over.

My cigarette burns as I watch Buffy dance. She moves and moves and moves; first thing I ever saw her do was dance.

It'll be the last thing I see her do, too.

* * *

It's not easy, I guess, leaving. I was always the one bein' left. Seems a bit less harsh now that Dru left me; Cecily told me to bug off. Sometimes it's just for the best. Maybe I should've done something other than leave her a note explaining that I was going, though.

When it comes down to it, I'm not all that good at doing what I'm supposed to. For being alive so long, surrounding myself with people, I don't always get how they interact. Maybe it's 'cause I'm not a person.

Thing is, not a vampire either. I'd say I was one of a kind in the truest sense, and that 'cause of it there can't be anyone who ever really gets me, but that's not true either, is it? I'm two of a kind, aren't I? Whereas she is just one girl in a million of others just like her. She's no longer an outcast; Angel and I always will be.

I hadn't left with anything but the clothes on my back. Don't come home with anything, either.

Home?

I snort. I really am a prat sometimes.

Angel's behind the counter when I walk in. He glances up and doesn't look at me any differently than he would a customer. "You didn't even make it a year," he greets, then closes some folder he was looking through.

"Yeah well. Don't act too surprised."

He stands up and walks around the counter. I strut towards the round cushions he keeps in the middle; I'm pretty sure it's got demon blood on it somewhere. Probably not altogether sanitary to have sitting around in a foyer. I step on the cushion and plop myself on the back of it, where they for some reason I can't bloody fathom put a little couch-plateau.

I sit on it, plant my muddy boots on the couch part. Angel strides up to me, hands on his hips so his nancy-boy waist-length jacket flares out like the irritatingly sexy ponce that he is.

Not that I think he's sexy or anything.

"Do you really have to sit like that, Spike?"

"Does you hair have to stick straight up?"

He rolls his eyes. "Right, because yours is so much better." I smile 'cause it's familiar and routine; I get this. I understand this part. The pace is comfortable, even. "Buffy called."

I shift. That can't be good. I mean, I let her know I was coming here for a reason-we should keep in touch, what since we both kill demons and all-but it's not like I'm really all that happy to hear what she has to say. "Yeah?"

"I'm supposed to smack you."

"Well that would be a bit fruity of you to do, wouldn't it?"

"I could always punch you."

I raise my eyebrows challengingly and plant my hands on my thighs; drum my fingers a bit. He stares me down, hands still on his hips, and I keep staring at him; he steps closer to the couch and drops his hands, folding them across his chest and glaring at me as if that'll really teach me a lesson.

"What did you do this time?" he asks, shaking his head.

"I left her."

He raised his eyebrow. "You expect me to believe that?" I give a one-shouldered shrug. It's true; whether or not he believes it is his choice. He lets out a long, tortured sigh-something he probably got good at after years of brooding-and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You mean to tell me that after the non-stop yammering you tortured me with, that you just left?"

"Pretty much."

He rolls his eyes and turns away; starts walking back to the counter. "Go find us a case and make yourself useful," he grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose again.

I stand up and walk across the cushions; drop off to the floor and he looks over his shoulder at the noise my boots make. He glares at the awkward couch thing I just hopped off of and rolls his eyes again. I stop right in front of him and poke him in the chest with my finger. "You're the one who kissed me before I left," I snap, poking him again. "If it weren't for you, I'd be off, puttin' it to her just as hard as ever, but no."

His grin is brief, but there. Of course he puts up a big stony, emotionless face after, but I'm not an idiot. "So this is all my fault?"

"Isn't everything?"

"I thought you weren't going to make a thing out of it?" he retorts.

"Pfft. Since when have any of my plans worked?"

He nods. "True. You weren't ever that particularly bright, were you?"

"Bright enough not to piss off gypsies, anyway." He cuffs my shoulder a bit sharply, then squeezes it; holds onto it. He keeps staring at me and I'm just staring at him. Normally I'm the one who makes the first move and all, but it's different. It's not like we haven't done it all before, hundreds of times over. It never meant anything then-well, except that once.

I clear my throat and decide to look at his throat instead of his face. "I know you've got Dog Girl and all-"

"Nina," he corrects.

"Right." I clear my throat again. "She'll be dead in fifty years though, won't she? And-well, it's not like I'm going anywhere." Not my best romantic proposition. Not that I'm trying to romance him or-oh, bugger it.

He chuckles dryly and strokes my shoulder with his thumb. "I'm not seeing her anymore," he tells me as if I should've known.

I look away from his throat right into his eyes. "Really?" I hate that I sound eager. He half-smiles and nods before he steps closer. I clear my throat again. "Harris gives us his blessings, you know."

"Stop talking," he orders before kissing me; just as soft as last time, but this time I figure, hell, why not? I kiss him back; push into it and tease his mouth open. He holds my face and honestly, it's such a girly move than I can't help but laugh into his mouth but he puts an end to that when he pushes his tongue into my mouth a bit forcefully.

Right. Shutting up now.

He bites at my lip. I kiss him hard enough to force him backwards until he hits the counter; wraps an arm around my waist and lets me assault his mouth. He skims over my shirt with his hand; slides it up my shirt and he's not burning or even all that warm; he's cold, like me, and I pull away when his fingers brush over the top of my jeans.

Neither of us move; he doesn't try to jump me again or tear off my shirt. He keeps looking at me, finger barely stroking underneath my navel. With Buffy, my head would've been spinning around off somewhere in space right about now while she rode me like a champ; instead, I feel anchored here. It's not a bad feeling. It's better, even. At least I feel more in control.

"If you lose your soul, I won't hesitate to stake you," I tell him.

"And if you honestly think being with you will approach anything near perfect happiness, I'm going to have to burst your self-deluded bubble."

"If I wasn't so bloody attached to you, I'd try to prove you wrong." I budge his nose with mine before coaxing his lips apart with some licking. "How's ninety-eight percent happiness sound?"

"Over-estimating yourself again," he clucks before unbuttoning my trousers with ease. "You couldn't get me above eighty-five."

I snort back a laugh, then press a few kisses to his jaw; bite at his neck and mouth down it slowly before biting down on his shoulder. He lets out a quiet moan; I chuckle against his skin when he slides the zipper free and sneaks his hand in. "Bullocks. I could get you to ninety, easily."

"Prove it," he challenges when he jerks me with a sure, smooth pull.

I lift my teeth from his shoulder and search his mouth thoroughly with mine. Sounds like a challenge I can take.


End file.
